He told me it sounded like life’s sweet spot. My friend was offering his take on the conversation I had that morning with my wife, in which she matter-of-factly raised the blinds to a sunnier side of aging than I had seen of late.
Despite my commitment to help others bring luster to their golden years, to show others how to age with conviction, and to embody purpose and passion, I was struggling. With a career behind me, and nothing but a few dreams ahead, I had lost the motivation I need to continue--living, working, being a husband, friend and father. You name it; I couldn’t find it
The feeling wasn’t one of depression or desperation, though I knew both were not far behind. It was more the sense of ennui that drives the French film industry, that disengagement from life and the nagging hunch that this may, in fact, be all there is.
It all started when the activities that used to stir me to action and brighten my days--concerts, dinner with friends, brisk walks through the park, sex--stopped working their magic. I had reached a point of equanimity, my past and future in a standoff, challenging each other for my present.
Though my professional life had fallen sort of expectations, it had provided a healthy and consistent source of income. And while my personal life was hardly worth autobiographical treatment, my past had been filled with good friends, much fun and a good sense of what it means to be alive.
My future, on the other hand, offered little more than what I imagined would be illness, financial shortfalls, and marginalization. What it had going for it was the same possible payback that every lottery ticket does. That is, the chance however slight, that my slim investment would great dividends, that life would prove worth living, and that no matter what another day might bring, the chance offered by playing was far greater than keeping that buck in my pocket.
So we’re back to my wife insisting that we have arrived at life’s sweet spot. At 65, the insecurities of youth are behind us, she said So too, is the quest for status and stuff that fueled our forays into soul-squelching corporate jobs. And as far as fears associated with getting old, she pointed out that if we keep ourselves healthy and our expectations in check, we have more than most to live for and with.
And with her words, sun streamed into my living room. I knew she was right, as she usually is in matters rooted in my insecurity. I knew there was nothing of the past to relive, and no more to be gained by wishing that I could somehow find again the intention and drive that come with job, family, and accumulation.
I stand squarely in life’s sweet spot, relieved of youth’s ignorance and not yet touched by the cold, arthritic hands of age. It feels good to stand in this warmth.
Despite my commitment to help others bring luster to their golden years, to show others how to age with conviction, and to embody purpose and passion, I was struggling. With a career behind me, and nothing but a few dreams ahead, I had lost the motivation I need to continue--living, working, being a husband, friend and father. You name it; I couldn’t find it
The feeling wasn’t one of depression or desperation, though I knew both were not far behind. It was more the sense of ennui that drives the French film industry, that disengagement from life and the nagging hunch that this may, in fact, be all there is.
It all started when the activities that used to stir me to action and brighten my days--concerts, dinner with friends, brisk walks through the park, sex--stopped working their magic. I had reached a point of equanimity, my past and future in a standoff, challenging each other for my present.
Though my professional life had fallen sort of expectations, it had provided a healthy and consistent source of income. And while my personal life was hardly worth autobiographical treatment, my past had been filled with good friends, much fun and a good sense of what it means to be alive.
My future, on the other hand, offered little more than what I imagined would be illness, financial shortfalls, and marginalization. What it had going for it was the same possible payback that every lottery ticket does. That is, the chance however slight, that my slim investment would great dividends, that life would prove worth living, and that no matter what another day might bring, the chance offered by playing was far greater than keeping that buck in my pocket.
So we’re back to my wife insisting that we have arrived at life’s sweet spot. At 65, the insecurities of youth are behind us, she said So too, is the quest for status and stuff that fueled our forays into soul-squelching corporate jobs. And as far as fears associated with getting old, she pointed out that if we keep ourselves healthy and our expectations in check, we have more than most to live for and with.
And with her words, sun streamed into my living room. I knew she was right, as she usually is in matters rooted in my insecurity. I knew there was nothing of the past to relive, and no more to be gained by wishing that I could somehow find again the intention and drive that come with job, family, and accumulation.
I stand squarely in life’s sweet spot, relieved of youth’s ignorance and not yet touched by the cold, arthritic hands of age. It feels good to stand in this warmth.
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